AN: So sorry for the delay! Have to work for a living, sadly. But I've really appreciated the reviews. I was going to go in a slightly different direction, but had a back and forth with a reader and decided to change a bit. This has one downside - sorry, but it had to happen sometime. Thank you for reading!

The heat of the summer gradually gave way to cooler and mercifully less eventful days. Mary remained at Pemberley, along with Mr. Bennet and Lydia's children, whom Lydia seemed disinclined to reclaim. Indeed, no one could even say for certain where she was. Georgiana stayed mostly in London, one of her elderly cousins in tow. At first, Elizabeth was confused as to why the vivacious young woman would have chosen such a dull companion, but she quickly realized there was great virtue in a chaperone who was hard of hearing, dreadfully nearsighted, and prone to falling deeply and suddenly asleep with little recall of the previous day's events. Even with such delightful oversight, Georgiana did not attend very well to her own social needs, beyond frequenting the salons of the Misses Berry. She did, however, continue to fan the brightening flame of her sister-in-law's reputation whenever she could, for Georgiana was indefatigable on a campaign and dangerous when idle. She spoke little to anyone of what might lie in her own heart or of her hopes for her future.

Elizabeth herself was contented. She grew increasingly at ease in her role as mistress of the estate and mother to her husband's children, as well as to her own. The household fell into a comfortable rhythm.

Across the channel in Europe, the war ground on, and the denizens of Pemberley followed as closely as they could through newspapers and letters, with Colonel Fitzroy being a particularly faithful correspondent. His letters were consumed avidly, and then quickly sent off to London for Georgiana, for whom they were clearly intended. The Colonel, Elizabeth knew, was far too proper to consider writing directly to Georgiana. She rather approved of his sense of honor, and her husband decidedly did, though she found herself wondering if Georgiana's correspondence with General Wellington also continued.

They were all thrilled to read in the papers that San Sebastian had fallen on August 31st to Wellington and his Peninsular allies, and rueful at Colonel Fitzroy's descriptions of the terrible depredations that followed, laced with tactful references to the misbehavior of "a certain officer of the armor."

A great number of French canon had reportedly been captured at San Sebastian, though the orders kept coming for new armaments from Lord Darcy's factories. In mid-September, there was actually an increase in requisitions.

"Surely, they are preparing to cross the border into France," Elizabeth remarked one evening, as they were going over the accounts together, something Elizabeth enjoyed assisting with. "They are asking for more of everything."

"Perhaps," was all her husband, the soul of discretion, would say, though he clearly agreed with her assessment. Indeed, not even Napoleon's forces were aware when British troops, along with their Spanish and Portugese allies, quietly moved into France.

One dark November afternoon, as English soldiers on the continent crept into position near the River Nivelle, Mr. Bennet dozed in his favorite chair in front of the fire in the library. Indeed, when he failed to turn up for tea, Elizabeth knew precisely where to find him.

She smiled gently when she saw he was asleep, and leaned over to retrieve his book from where it had fallen to the floor. As she straightened, Elizabeth froze.

"Papa?" she whispered. "Papa?" she repeated, raising her voice and shaking his shoulder gently.

"No!" she cried out, her voice high and thin, "No, no, no," she wailed, crumbling to the ground, arms wrapped around herself.

Soon, there were echoes of feet running down the hall, for while Elizabeth's cries had not been loud, the sound of grief carries. The servants arrived first, unsure of what to do when they saw their mistress huddled on the floor, sobbing, so they stood in the doorway, whispering to each other nervously. Mrs. Reynolds, grimacing as her old joints creaked in protest at being required to move so fast, swept into the room, took one look at Elizabeth and closed her eyes tightly for a moment before heaving a great sigh.

"Catherine, go fetch Lord Darcy at once. Sarah, find Miss Mary and bring her here. John, tell cook to make a strong tea of St. John's Wort and chamomile, quick as she can, and then get the doctor. Now shoo, all of you, back to your chores. This instant. Wait, you - tell the nurses to keep the children away."

The aging housekeeper hesitated on the threshold, for it was not her place to offer comfort to the lady of the house. With a small shake of her head, she evidently thought better of such restrictions and slipped quietly into the room and over to her distressed mistress.

"My lady," she murmured, hesitantly placing her hand on Elizabeth's shuddering shoulder. "I am so very sorry."

Elizabeth straightened, tears coursing down her face, and seized Mrs. Reynolds hands. "Please, tell me it is not so. Please," she begged, "can you look at him? See if he yet lives? I could not bring myself to check."

Mrs. Reynolds swallowed hard, but nodded, gently disengaging her hands from Elizabeth's. She leaned over Mr. Bennet, but she didn't really need to touch him to know that he was, indeed, dead. There is something diminished about a body when the soul has fled, as though the flesh itself is but an empty coat without the spirit inside. But she laid her fingers against his cooling skin, nonetheless. First his neck, then his temple. She bowed her head.

"He is at peace, my lady," she said gently.

Elizabeth sat on the floor, her legs tucked under her, and covered her face in her hands. She leaned against Mrs. Reynolds, crying softly, and the housekeeper stroked her hair until Lord Darcy arrived, breathless and calling his wife's name.

The doctor came as quickly as possible. And while he could not be certain as to the cause of death, he thought it was surely another stroke, and that Mr. Bennet may have simply fallen asleep, never to wake up.

"It is unlikely he felt any pain," he soothed, patting Elizabeth's hand and nodding at Mary. "Death is never kind, my dears, but few among us are fortunate enough to have such a gentle end. I hope that may give you comfort some day."

Jane and Kitty arrived over the next two days, but Elizabeth was unable to locate Lydia. Finally, she wrote to George Wickham, hoping that he might at least have some way of notifying her youngest sister of their father's passing. But she was sure the army was on the move and doubted he would reply to her letter for some time, if he ever even received it.

The four sisters agreed that there was no point in pretending to wait for Lydia, and so a few days after Mr. Bennet's death, his daughters gathered with their husbands in the formal parlor at Pemberley, along with the solicitor, to hear their father's will.

"Yes, yes," Mr. Wigginbottom said gravely, peering over his spectacles. "There will be no surprises here. The estate is entailed, and there are few other belongings of significant value, though my client was quite particular about the disposition of his possessions. Before we go into those details, however, I have a letter he asked me to read to you all."

The letter was quite recent, dated less than three months before.

"My dear children," Mr. Wigginbottom began, abruptly looking up in alarm. "That is to say, Mr. Bennet's children. I will be reading his words now, you understand?"

They all nodded, Elizabeth briefly making eye contact with her husband and finding she was unable to contain a small spark of amusement, even in the midst of her misery. She rolled her eyes, ever so slightly.

"Minus one, he says here. But what can he mean by that?" the solicitor muttered. "Oh, I see. I see.

"For Lydia is surely not present. Before you hear my last wishes for my possessions, I want to thank you all. You have been the very best daughters any father could want -

"Oh that's quite nice, quite nice."

"You have given me many years of joy and taken care of me in my time of need, and I regret that I do not have more to give you in return. There is nothing any of us can do but cede Longbourn to Mr. Collins."

"It is true, dear ladies," the solicitor muttered apologetically, "too true." He cleared his throat, looking hurriedly down at the letter when he noticed the stony glances directed his way.

"I urge you to feel no grief over its loss, for it is just a house. The important notion is that those who lived beneath its roof carry within them the most valuable property, and that is our love and kinship. Indeed, I request that I be buried at the Pemberley parish churchyard, if Lord Darcy agrees to it, as I would not wish to be any closer to the next heir of Longbourn, even in death."

Darcy nodded, looking rather pleased, and murmured that perhaps Mr. Bennet could be interred in the Darcy family vault.

"Oh ladies, your father is most fortunate!" Mr. Wigginbottom declared, undeterred by the withering looks he received from Elizabeth and Mary.

"Pray, continue," Jane urged him gently, before either of her sisters could comment.

"I am aware that Mr. Collins asked to occupy my estate before my death."

Mr. Wigginbottom peered up at them again, as Mary shot a glare at Elizabeth.

"That would be most irregular," he opined, looking over his spectacles at them. "Most inappropriate. Just not done."

"Is that what my father wrote?" Elizabeth inquired, with barely restrained impatience.

"Oh no no," Mr. Wigginbottom responded in alarm, his old-fashioned, powdered wig sliding slightly askew. "Assuredly not. He said:"

"I thank you for sparing me that indignity, though I know such considerations were kindly meant."

Mary cleared her throat loudly, but Elizabeth refused to look at her.

"I urge you now to make haste to Longbourn to retrieve my personal effects, for I do not believe Mr. Collins will tarry long once he hears of my demise. What little I do have to leave you is in jeopardy every moment that you hesitate. My last wish is that you all live well and be happy, dancing and dining well, as your mother would wish for you all, your loving father."

"Oh my heavens!" the little bewigged lawyer suddenly ejaculated, startling them all. "That will not do at all! We must go at once. At once, do you understand! Your father was not a wealthy man, but he does have some moderately valuable possessions that are not included in the estate. Those should by all rights belong to the four, er, ah, the five of you."

"But the funeral..." Kitty said, rubbing one hand across her very pregnant belly in confusion.

"It can wait!" Mr. Wigginbottom insisted. "It is cold outside; his body will keep. You may bury him next week, none the wiser."

They all stared at him, aghast.

"Oh, er," he said hastily, "that is, of course, your choice."

"Of course," Mary repeated dryly. "One may be forgiven for allowing some sentiment into the discussion when it is one's own paterfamilias."

"Oh my, young lady, of course," the little man said, eyes wide. "Sentiment can be a very healthy thing, at the appropriate time and in the right measure."

"Indeed," Mary responded, the left corner of her lip curling slightly upward. "So, who will be coming with me to rescue our father's penultimate Earthly remains?"

It was decided that Jane and Kitty and her husband would stay at Pemberley and make the arrangements for the funeral; Georgiana would arrive later that same day and could assist. Lord Darcy, Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth, and Mary, along with several empty wagons, would travel immediately to Longbourn. Mr. Wigginbottom insisted on accompanying them.

"My Lord," he appealed to Darcy, "my services may be needed, if this Mr. Collins does, indeed, attempt to declare his rights to the contents of the house, to which he is simply not entitled."

"It is not for me to say," Darcy demurred, raising an eyebrow at his wife, who allowed herself her second smile of the day.

"Sir," she answered quietly, "I assure you, we are quite capable of dealing with Mr. Collins, though we certainly appreciate your generosity."

"Tis not generosity," the lawyer insisted, "but merely your due. I am well paid out of the estate for my services."

"Whether we wish it or no?" Mary commented archly, eyes gleaming.

Mr. Wigginbottom flushed, and then drew himself up to his full height, which left him almost even with Mary's nostrils, though she was tallish for a woman.

"You are by no means obliged to accept my help," he said with dignity, "but I offer it nonetheless, with a clean conscience."

"Of course," Mary murmured. "Forgive me. We appreciate your offer. Indeed, I am sure my sisters and I agree that your presence would be most welcome, if you are willing to make the trip."

"I have said that I am, young lady," the solicitor returned sternly. "I shall fetch my valise and meet you outside in 15 minutes."

"Ah, better make it 45 minutes, dear man," Bingley interrupted. "It will take me at least that long to gather my belongings and say goodbye. Alright then, Darcy?"

Mr. Wigginbottom looked scandalized, though it was unclear if it was by the familiar form of address Bingley used for his lofty brother-in-law, or if it was the unseemly delay. He just muttered something under his breath, excused himself from the ladies, and hurried away.

"A remarkable chap," Darcy murmured, as they all watched the little man go. "We should make haste - I would not wish to keep him waiting." They all chuckled, in spite of their grim spirits, and swiftly retired to their chambers to pack a change of clothes.